


Jerk of Art

by briggs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Artist AU, Artist!Stiles, Laura has a daughter too, Laura has a husband, M/M, Mark Hale (OC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/briggs/pseuds/briggs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing, ever, is being uninspired. There is literally nothing worse than putting a pencil to paper and having nothing come out. So, of course, when Stiles’ visual arts professor instructs the class to sketch someone as detailed as they possibly can, and Stiles pulls up a blank on people to draw, he wants to punch himself in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jerk of Art

The worst thing, ever, is being uninspired. There is literally nothing worse than putting a pencil to paper and having nothing come out. So, of course, when Stiles’ visual arts professor instructs the class to sketch someone as detailed as they possibly can, and Stiles pulls up a blank on people to draw, he wants to punch himself in the face.  
  
With something sharp and extra painful, like brass knuckles or a chair or something.  
  
He tries asking Lydia first, because he’s forever loyal to his first crush. She doesn’t respond when he knocks on her door and doesn’t even look up from the papers she’s looking over when she replies. “I don’t really have the time to sit still right now? I’ve got most of the equation up on the wallboard and I am days away from finishing, Stiles. _Days_.”  
  
Stiles decides to take that as his cue to leave her apartment, because he might fall asleep if she explains the progress she’s made on this huge math equation she’s so close to solving. Lydia’s a genius, don’t get him wrong, but it’s all gibberish to him. Plus, she’s right, most of the wall-sized chalkboard next to her is covered in the language of numbers that makes Stiles dizzy, and she keeps leaning over to add something.  
  
So the next option is Scott.  
  
He backs out halfway through, though. Scott’s jaw, seriously? There’s no way he’s going to give up like, five hours of his life focusing just on that guy’s goddamn lopsided jaw. So Stiles does his best to back out of the conversation without making anything obvious, but eventually Scott gets what he’s talking about. “I think you should ask Allison or Isaac,” he says, instead of pouting at the fact that Stiles doesn’t want to use him.  
  
“Seriously?”  
  
“Yeah, dude,” Scott shrugs. “I mean, they’re both practically models already.”  
  
“Don’t rub it in my face, man. You’ve got good taste, hot people like you back, _I get it_.”  
  
Stiles tries asking Allison and Isaac, he really does. But Allison is in the middle of target practice when he calls her, and Stiles can definitely hear the swooshing of arrows flying _as he’s speaking_ , so he backs out.   
  
And when he calls Isaac, the dude is quite literally crying, and also talking to someone else. It’s ten minutes out of his phone plan before Stiles figures out that Isaac is at a pet store. Scratch that, adoption centre. Maybe a pound? Vet’s office? Who knows, honestly, but he’s sniffling and asking how to adopt a dog with a broken leg, and Stiles thinks maybe he should leave the guy to it.  
  
There are no other options. This is it, Stiles is going to sleep forever and fail out of college. He can become a stripper, right? Or like, a caricature artist at Disneyland. Do those guys get paid well?  
  
So here’s what you do when you’re the Sahara for models to draw and completely blank on ideas: you sit in front of one of the paintings you bought at an art show, preferably your favourite one (above the bed) and you cry. Like the independent, strong, adult man you are, you cry a lot. Then you go over to your second favourite, on the wall above your stove, and you yell at it. Then maybe you go to your third favourite, beside the balcony door, and you just stare. For like, fifteen minutes straight.  
  
Maybe it’s weird that all three of Stiles’ favourite paintings are by the same nameless guy, but what does he care? He and _H_ have a bond, okay, and one day they’re going to meet and shake hands.   
  
He resorts to getting coffee, because it might at least make him happy. It’s basically like eating ice cream straight out of the tub with all the whipped cream they put on his caramel macchiato. Not that he’s complaining.  
  
On a whim, he asks the barista, but “can I draw your face,” must be a pretty creepy thing to say after getting your coffee, because she just laughs awkwardly and doesn’t answer. Then again, her eyebrows would be a pain in the ass to draw anyway. She did have nice cheekbones, though.  
  
With no other brilliant ideas, Stiles slumps his way to the very back of the Starbucks, where the small library-type section is. There are only three seats back there, and they’re usually unoccupied, so Stiles decides that’s where he’s going to wallow in his misfortune.  
  
Except one of the seats _is_ occupied.   
  
However, the occupant happens to be very, very gorgeous. The first thing Stiles notices, true to his artist status, is the guy’s eyes. They’re always hardest, so Stiles always looks at them first. This dude has the eyes of the sea, constantly glinting in the sun that’s coming in from the window, and Stiles already wants to make out with him.  
  
His mouth looks soft, and it’s wide. His lips don’t thin as they move to his cheeks, but they’re also not too thick in the first place. They’d be perfect to kiss, and he thinks he’s probably licking his lips right about now. Not to mention, Stiles keeps moving his eyes back to this beautiful man’s cheekbones and jawline, outlined perfectly by just the right amount of stubble.  
  
This, of course, sets off a truly magnificent game of mental tug-of-war in Stiles’ head. On one hand, it’s going to be very awkward to sit next to this handsome stranger and try not to cry out of _multiple_ levels of frustration. On the other hand, though, this guy is probably the most stunning dude Stiles has literally ever seen, and who wouldn’t want to embarrass themselves if it meant sitting beside someone like this for a while?  
  
After spending what must be a truly mortifying amount of time standing there like an idiot trying to make a decision, Stiles eventually sits down. He takes the seat across from the guy, though, because why not at least console himself with coffee _and_ eye-candy?  
  
Ten minutes later, Stiles can’t take it. He has to take this undeniably amazing shot while he has it, okay? He has to at least try and talk to the glorious marble statue in front of him. Not to mention, his name is Stiles Stilinski and he is nothing if not true to his reputation of Never Shuts Up.   
  
“I’m sorry, this is super forward, and I promise I’m not just trying to hit on you, dude, this is legit. But I was wondering if I could draw you for a project?”  
  
“You’re an artist?” the man across from him asks, eyebrows raised.  
  
All Stiles manages to respond with is, “I guess you could say that,” because he both _is_ and _isn’t_. He’s an artist because he creates things and calls it art; but he is also not an artist because he’s still in school. “Sorry, that sounds creepy. Yes, I am a self-proclaimed artist, as stupid and narcissistic as that sounds.”  
  
“You think it’s narcissistic to call yourself an artist?” The dude’s eyebrows raise even farther, and Stiles can’t tell if he’s offending the guy or underwhelming him.  
  
“Well, no, not always? But if you prance around telling everyone who will listen that you’re an artist, obviously you’re pretty invested in yourself, right? I don’t know, stop backing me into corners.”  
  
The dude across from him just laughs, and while Stiles can’t really tell if it’s malicious or not, he thinks he might be having heart palpitations anyway. Seriously, his laugh is beautiful. Why is everything about this guy beautiful? God definitely sent him down just so Stiles will forever know how terribly he can strike out.  
  
“I actually have to go, but if you’re still asking, I’ll let you draw me. Here’s my number,” the guy says, writing on a napkin. “Text when you’re available and then with your address, and I’ll see if I can make it.”  
  
“I didn’t think that would work, but yeah, thank you! I’ll text you!” Stiles is beaming shamelessly down at his coffee as the guy leaves the room, until he remembers that he doesn’t have his name. He throws himself around in his chair, yells, “Hey!” praying that the dude will hear him and turn around.  
  
It must be Stiles’ lucky day, because he does.  
  
“What’s your name?”  
  
“Derek.”  
  
“Sweet, I’m Stiles.” The guy raises his eyebrows again. “I’ll text you, Derek!” He nods, and then does an adorable little half-assed three-finger wave before leaving.   
  
It’s not Stiles’ fault if he instinctively pulls back his fist and whispers, “Score,” under his breath.  
  
*   
  
It’s a day and a half before Stiles’ willpower finally breaks and he texts Derek.   
  
_hi its stiles and i’m free today and tomorrow and this week and essentially forever i have no life don’t judge me_  
  
He waits, _patiently_ (not) for three hours. He makes himself food in his loft apartment, because it’s essentially the only thing that can distract him right now. He’s already tried playing COD for an hour, but it doesn’t help because he keeps anxiously awaiting the tell-tale phone vibration and literally freaking the _fuck_ out every time someone favourites his tweet.  
  
Finally, he gets back:  
  
 **I’m free tomorrow.**  
  
And it takes every ounce of willpower Stiles has remaining not to text back in under three seconds. He stalls for five minutes before sending something.  
  
 _so am i_  
  
 **So you’ve said.**  
  
 _oh yeah_  
  
 _well what time?_  
  
Stiles doesn’t stop himself in time. Isn’t there some unwritten rule about not texting twice in a row? Whatever.  
  
 **How long do you need?**  
  
Honestly, it’s a loaded question and Stiles should not be blamed for his inability to come up with a swift answer.  
  
 _uhhhhhhh depends? it’s supposed to be a super detailed sketch so i’m thinking maybe four hours_  
  
Mr. Gorgeous takes forever to respond, and Stiles does his best not to get antsy again.  
  
 **5:00?**  
  
Why did he need to take half an hour for that? _Why_? Just to torture Stiles? Lord Almighty. The guy probably doesn’t even know what he’s capable of. Jerk.  
  
*  
  
Stiles is incredibly anxious all through the next day. He cleans the loft as much as he can, but it’s kind of difficult with all of the easels and canvases he has. He doesn’t like to stack them on top of one another, okay? It’s just… it doesn’t seem right.   
  
Eventually he gets most of the living space clean-ish, which basically means there isn’t a bunch of random shit everywhere, but since there are essentially no walls, his “bedroom” remains both in clear view and a complete mess. All he’s got is a bead waterfall over where his bathroom door should be.  
  
That’s not a practical idea, by the way. Don’t do that. Especially if your friends are largely oblivious to the idea of knocking on the wall _beside_ the beads.  
  
So he cooks again, lunch for himself. He absolutely does not think about how difficult it’s going to be trying to get Mr. Gorgeous’ eyebrows right, or how to get the texture of his hair.  
  
Of course, as soon as it gets to 4:30, Stiles is absolutely terrified that Derek isn’t going to understand the directions, or isn’t going to come at all.   
  
Then he starts worrying about dinner. He’ll be honest, he’s not the greatest cook. Mac and Cheese from a box is about as far as it goes for him, and that doesn’t really sound like a fantastic four-star meal.   
  
Stiles spends the next half hour searching his entire apartment for every takeout menu he has.  
  
Five o’clock on-the-dot, there’s a knock.   
  
Stiles slides open his metal door, trying to come up with something intelligent to say. “Uhhhh, hey.”

Nailed it.  
  
“Hey.”  
  
He might get a little lost in Derek’s eyes again, honestly, but eventually the guy’s eyebrow shoots up and Stiles remembers his manners. “Uh, yeah, yeah. Come in, please.” Derek nods to him as he walks by.  
  
Derek waltzes around the loft, taking everything in, eyebrows raised, probably. “Nice studio.”  
  
“I live here,” is all Stiles can say in return.  
  
“Nice studio apartment, then.”  
  
“Thanks. It’s uh, you know, it’s cheap.” Stiles shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. He can’t take his eyes off this guy’s back, his shoulder muscles moving under his shirt, arms hugged by the sleeves. Stiles is strongly considering doing a full body sketch.  
  
Derek turns around to look at him again. “No success in the business yet? That’s surprising.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t bother holding in his laugh. “You haven’t seen my stuff, dude. It’s not that surprising, I promise.”  
  
“It’s right here, I assume,” Derek says, pointing at all the canvases that Stiles has leaning up against the far wall. “These are good.”  
  
Stiles can only scratch the back of his head. “Those are the -- um, the quicker ones, but yeah. Uh, thanks.”  
  
“Where do you want me to sit?”  
  
“Uhhhh,” Stiles says, another brilliant reply. He looks around until he finds his wooden stool, and then he plants it in the kitchen, up near the huge slanted window. Even when the sun’s down, it’s still the best source of light. “Here. Just.. you know, do whatever. You don’t have to pose, but you can’t move either, so -- just do what you want, I guess.”  
  
Derek chuckles a little, just as intoxicating as before. “Okay, whatever you say.” He gets up on to the stool, straightens his back, and looks out the window. Which is, of course, an absolutely perfect pose for Stiles to sketch.   
  
He runs back to get his pencils before finally putting one to paper and feeling everything relax. It’s been awhile since drawing felt this good. “Oh, yeah,” Stiles remembers to say, “This might get a little awkward. We can talk if you want, I can multitask, but there are definitely going to be some weird silences.”  
  
“Who says they have to be weird or awkward?”  
  
“Well, no one, I guess. I’m just trying to prepare you, dude.”  
  
See, the worst thing about this situation is that sketching someone, especially for Stiles, is a very intimate thing. That’s why he went with Lydia first and Scott second. It’s a shared silence, a study of features, an insight into someone’s thoughts or whatever. Maybe he can’t pinpoint it well, but it’s definitely important.   
  
So sitting there, putting led to paper and drawing the first line of Derek’s forehead, is both very fulfilling and very painful. Stiles has to sit, studying every single inch of this gorgeous man’s face, which already makes him want to cry. Not to mention that Mr. Gorgeous is a weird mix of both a jerk and not a jerk at all.  
  
Stiles decides to do a rough outline first, before putting in major features like the eyebrows and nose. He makes damn sure to make it clear what exact position Derek is sitting in so that he can break for dinner later and come back. It’s already six, and he doesn’t know what time Derek usually eats dinner at.  
  
“Hey, so um--” Stiles starts, pausing to add a specially difficult line in Derek’s jaw. “I don’t know when you usually eat or what your typical quality of dinner is, but I got out a literal shitload of take-out menus you can choose from whenever you want to break? I don’t know, I could cook something if you’re really craving some burnt mac and cheese, but I personally would strongly advise against it--”

  
“Take out is fine, whenever you’re ready to take a break. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Thank God,” Stiles says while quite literally wiping his brow. “I’m easy, so we can take a break in like, ten minutes maybe? To like, order, and then the food should show up twenty minutes after.”  
  
“Sounds good. Do you need me to move at all?”  
  
“No, you’re good.” There’s about five minutes of silence before Stiles has to speak again. “I have to ask: is it weird?”  
  
“To be drawn?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Derek hums a little. “Kind of. Not the way I thought it would be, though.”  
  
“I feel like it would be… vulnerable.”  
  


“Yeah, I feel a bit exposed. Although not just in the bad sense.”  
  
That definitely _could_ be Derek hitting on him, but honestly, Stiles has no idea. Scholars are weird.  
  
They’re both silent again until another five minutes later, when Stiles tries six times to get Derek’s upper lip right and ends up throwing down the pencil and stomping over to where the take-out menus are.  
  
“Have you been to all these places?” Derek asks, eyebrows raised a little as he examines the back of a jerk restaurant pamphlet.  
  
“Most of them, yeah. Some of them -- like uh, this one -- Scott and I have just walked by and grabbed a menu for. Some because the prices were cheap, some because they actually smelled good. But I can’t remember which is which anymore, honestly.”  
  
“Great. Are we going to die?”  
  
“Oh come on, Derek. It can’t be that bad.”  
  


It is that bad.  
  
And worse.  
  
They order from a Chinese restaurant in a part of town that should really probably be avoided, and it definitely comes back to bite them in the butt.   
  
When the food arrives, an hour later (which Stiles definitely used to his advantage, thank you), the delivery man is rude and difficult. They shrug it off, though, because what are you going to do? They didn’t tip him, there isn’t much else to do.  
  
In fact, they laugh about it a little. Stiles makes literally as many jokes as he can just so he can hear Derek’s chuckle.   
  
Then they open up the containers.  
  
It’s a mess. Nothing is separated probably, food is everywhere, and it smells bad. Very, very bad. One look at the meat and they’re both trying not to vomit.  
  
“Okay, I’ll be the first to say it: food trumps art and this is literal shit. Do you wanna go some place nicer?”  
  
Derek laughs softly. “After you.”  
  
They walk down the streets outside Stiles’ apartment for a while, looking for anywhere to go. Stiles knows they’ll probably see something soon, but he also wants to fill the silence.  
  
“So,” he starts, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. It’s not too cold, for a night in the fall, which means it’s perfect for a walk. “Where do you live?”  
  
“On the other side of town. I have an apartment similar to yours.”  
  
“A loft?” Stiles asks, because no one has a loft. No one. In fact, Scott still doesn’t really understand what makes it a loft.  
  
Derek nods. “Couldn’t stand having a normal apartment. Not enough windows.”  
  
“Good point.”  
  
“How long have you been an artist?”  
  
Stiles has to laugh, okay, he has to. “It depends on your definition, I guess. I’ve been doodling since I was a tiny ADHD kid bored in his second grade math class. I didn’t start painting until I was fourteen, though. My dad wasn’t very happy.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because-- Oh hey, do you wanna go in here? It’s a good pub, I promise. I usually go for the bar aspect, but the food is pretty good, too.”  
  
Derek shrugs. Apparently he isn’t a man of many words. “Sure, sounds good.”  
  
As they’re walking in, Derek holds the door open for him. Because he hates Stiles and wants him to die. Is it inappropriate to jump such a gentleman in the bathroom of a shitty downtown pub?  
  
“Booth, please -- wait, no.” He can’t even talk to the host right. Stiles whips around. “Booth? Bar? Table for two? I’m easy.”  
  
The man behind him just chuckles again. “Booth is fine.”  
  
“Cool! A booth, please!” They’re lead to a seat near the back, and then Stiles starts talking again. “Anyway, yeah, young Stiles had a habit of painting, you know, with his elbows? I don’t know how that happened, it just ended up that there was paint literally everywhere after I had a burst of inspiration.”  
  
Derek smirks a tiny bit. “I can see how that would be aggravating.”  
  
“Hey! Listen, jerk,” Stiles jabs a finger at him playfully, just as their server arrives. “Are you drinking anything?”  
  
“I don’t think so,” Derek says, before turning to the waiter. “I’ll just have water, thanks.”  
  
“And a Coke?” Stiles adds.  
  
The poor guy, probably not a day over nineteen, grimaces. “Is Pepsi okay?”  
  
With a huge sigh, mostly for show, Stiles agrees.  
  
They eventually order real food, and Stiles finds he can’t stop staring at Derek’s lips. It’s natural, for an artist, right? To want to know the texture, how they feel, what they taste like…  
  
Maybe not.  
  
It’s not his fault, okay, it just really, really feels like an awkward first date. Except they’re not awkward, and this isn’t a date, as much as Stiles wishes it were.   
  
“How’s your sheppard’s pie?”

Thank God that’s what falls out of Stiles’ mouth instead of, “let’s go back to my place and make out,” because that is at serious risk of happening.  
  
Derek hums as he scoops up some more from his dish. “Delicious. You?”

“Honestly,” Stiles licks his lips. “This is probably on the top ten best fish and chips I’ve ever eaten.”  
  
“What does it smell like?” Derek says, a laugh on his face. He’s definitely referencing the horrible Chinese food.  
  
“Uh, fish, thank God. So much better than wet dog.”  
  
They laugh again. Stiles does his best to engrain the sound into his memory forever.  
  
Since the cooks at the fast food place were very obviously quite constipated and took over an hour to shit into a styrofoam box, and Stiles and Mr. Gorgeous had to find somewhere else to eat, it’s already eight-thirty and Stiles has only gotten two hours total of sketching in.  
  
He sighs. Someone’s got to say the words, and as much as Stiles hates to do it, he does anyway. “I don’t want to keep you up or waiting. I’m sure you’ve got like, important stuff to be doing and whatever, so don’t worry about the bill, I’ve got it. And I can finish the sketch by memory, hopefully.”  
  
“Are you stealing the breadsticks?”  
  
Stiles may have dropped his jaw a little. “What?”  
  
“I mean, did I say something wrong?” It’s weird, honestly, because Derek doesn’t look that concerned. Actually he’s eyeing Stiles quite a bit.  
  
“No, no, of course not. I’m just giving you an out. I mean, it’s probably going to be close to nine when you get home as it is, so. I’m saving you the burden of being rude.”  
  
“How kind of you,” Derek gripes.  
  
Stiles actually sticks his tongue out at him.  
  
“How many hours of work did you get in?”  
  
“Uhhh,” Stiles says, intelligently. “Two? It’s fine, I can finish it, you’re probably busy.” He’s determinedly not looking at Derek, instead pawing through his wallet for enough money to pay the bill. Thankfully, the place is pretty cheap, and they didn’t eat very much. Admittedly, he’s praying Derek will correct him, tell him he’s not busy, ask him out, anything.  
  
Derek hums, puts down money on the bill before Stiles manages to, but Stiles isn’t having any of it. “Hey, no, I’ve got it. It’s a thank-you.”  
  
“Can I at least put in--”  
  
“Nope. It’s mine.”  
  
Mr. Gorgeous laughs lightly. “Okay, fine. I’m free tomorrow, though. If you want to finish.”  
  
Stiles honestly struggles not to shout “yes” right now immediately. He waits a second, like a normal person, before saying, “Yeah, sure. That would be great, if you don’t mind.”  
  
“Not at all. Text me.” He’s already grabbing his jacket. “Bye, Stiles.”  
  
And Derek is out the door, taking Stiles’ hopes and dreams with him and that dumb little half-assed wave. At least they get to see each other tomorrow though, right?  
  
*  
  
Tomorrow comes. Stiles texts Mr. Gorgeous. Mr. Gorgeous replies relatively swiftly.  
  
 **Be there in ten.**  
  
Ten? Minutes? Town takes at least half an hour to get through on a good day, where the hell is Derek right now?  
  
 _why where are you_  
  
 **I was at my sister’s. Let me drive.**  
  
 _right, sorry_  
  
His sister’s. Stiles pretends he can’t feel himself smiling, pretends he doesn’t want to know more about Derek’s life, pretends he doesn’t care what Derek’s sister is like. It doesn’t work for long.  
  
He tries to get his apartment ready again, clearing up clutter as much as he can and freshening himself up. Stiles brushes his teeth, showers, maybe uses a bit more body wash than normal, possibly sprays a little cologne. No one has to know, right?   
  
Wrong.  
  
Derek walks in the door and almost immediately asks, “Are you wearing something?”  
  
To which Stiles can only respond, “I sure hope so? I mean, those naked-in-public dreams are embarrassing enough when they’re in my head.”  
  
Mr. Gorgeous laughs and Stiles’ chest absolutely does not ache. “I meant cologne.”  
  
“Well, I showered?” They’re already taking their positions on stool and floor. He likes to be quite literally grounded when he draws, okay? You can’t judge an artist for their ticks. Whatever makes the art flow, or something.   
  
Derek hums. “What’s the plan for today?”  
  
“Well,” Stiles shoves his hands in his lap, peering around the stand he’s put his sketch paper on. “I haven’t got too much left to do, but it’s supposed to be super detailed so if you’re willing to stay more than two hours I could probably keep you here forever.”  
  
“That wouldn’t be so bad.”  
  
See? Is that flirting? Who knows. Anyone? Bueller? “Okay, um.” Stiles is deliberately not addressing what Derek said, mostly because he has legitimately _no_ idea how to respond to it anyway. “Can you just, uh, tilt your head to the left a little? No like -- your jaw, not your -- just um. Look up more? Uh….” This is proving to be more difficult than Stiles thought.  
  
A blush rises on Derek’s cheeks, and Stiles wants to die immediately. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to do.”  
  
“It’s okay, I’ll just, um…” Stiles unfolds his legs and gets up to walk to where Derek is on the stool. He lets his hands hover out in front of him. “Do you mind?” Stiles nods down at his hands just to clarify.  
  
Mr. Gorgeous just shakes his head. “Go ahead.”  
  
Stiles carefully places his hands on Derek’s cheekbones, positioning them as best he can. He feels the stubble scratch a little against his palms, but he can also feel the softness underneath. He wishes he couldn’t hear his own heart beating a mile a minute.  
  
He leans back a little before lightly grabbing Derek’s chin to tilt it a little to the left. Stiles can’t help staring at Derek the whole time, who seems unphased.  
  
“Sorry, um. Yeah, that’s good. Thanks.” Then Stiles kind of scurries back to his seat on the floor, to continue sketching and hiding his (probably tomato-red) face behind his sketchpad. After a while, he has to speak again. It’s a habit, or something. “Hey, can I ask you something?”  
  
Derek hesitates for a second. “Sure.”  
  
“What kind of music do you listen to?”  
  
He just shrugs. “Anything, I guess. Mostly classical music, sometimes alternative rock. I don’t listen to music often, though.”  
  
“Seriously?” Stiles has to lean to the side to stare at Derek. “How can you not like music? That’s ridiculous, music is _a part of me_ , Derek. I can’t survive without it--”  
  
“I never said I didn’t _like_ it, I just said I don’t listen to it very much.”  
  
“Is that not the same thing?” Stiles exclaims, maybe a little loudly. He jumps up, running to the other side of the loft where his speakers are set up. “I’m playing music, sorry, you’re going to have to live with it.”  
  
“What a hardship.”  
  
Stiles smiles to himself as he chooses a song. “Stop being so sarcastic, you’re stealing my thunder.”   
  
“Hmm. Tragedy.”  
  
“Hey, listen, jerk. What did I just say?” Stiles shoots back, but he’s holding back laughter. He hasn’t really had anyone to compete with in the sarcasm department for a long time. Maybe ever.   
  
Derek just laughs again. Just jam a knife in his heart and twist it, why don’t you? “What is this?”  
  
“Alt-J. They’re kind of weird, but they’re pretty popular. I love painting to them, but sketching works too.”  
  
There’s a brief pause before Mr. Gorgeous finally graces him with a response, the asshole. “I think I like it.”  
  
Stiles can only chuckle. “Want to play a game with it?”  
  
“I guess.”  
  
“I’ve got this artist on shuffle. Listen to the lyrics and try and guess which song is about gang rape.”  
  
When Stiles finally turns around to look at Derek, the guy’s strong eyebrows are raised and he hasn’t said anything. “Gang rape?”  
  
“Yeah. There’s only one, and I had to look it up to find out, but it’s fun to listen to people try and guess.”  
  
“You’re crazy.”  
  
“Whatever, asshole. Listen to the lyrics.” He sits back down, cross legged, and has the pencil on the paper for literally under two seconds before Derek is speaking again.  
  
He sounds confused as hell. “Are these guys speaking English?”  
  
Stiles doesn’t hold in his laugh. “I mean, yeah? He just likes to pronounce shit weird, I guess.”  
  
“I hear gibberish.”  
  
“Use your ears, dummy.”  
  
“That’s not very nice, Stiles.” Oh, it’s a punch to the gut to hear Derek say his name in the caramel voice he has.  
  
He coughs to mask his pause. “Yeah, whatever. Hold still already.”  
  
Stiles can’t rush. First of all, it has to be good, since it’s one of his first assignments of the year. Second, he wants it to look like Derek. He wants to be able to stare at it before handing it in and being reminded of the time he had a very, very attractive man in his apartment for two consecutive days.  
  
Which, of course, means paying an absolutely _painful_ amount of attention to the detail on the man’s face. It’s a good thing that’s part of the assignment anyway. Although it is making Stiles want to kiss him even more.   
  
“Alright, it’s six thirty already. I’m done most of it, I just need to get more details in, I think.”  
  
“Do you want to eat?”  
  
Stiles shrugs, peering around his paper. “I dunno. Are you hungry? I could call one of the pizza places--”  
  
“No,” Derek chuckles. “Have you got something here?”  
  
“Uhh,” Stiles pauses, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, I guess so. I usually leave it for when Lydia or Isaac come over, though. I told you I can’t cook, dude.”  
  
“I’ll cook.” It’s definitive, no room for protest. Derek must remember his place as a guest in Stiles’ home, though, because he adds: “If that’s okay with you.”  
  
“Well yeah, it’s fine, but I think it probably reflects terribly on me, as a host, right? You’re a guest, you shouldn’t need to cook for us.”  
  
Derek makes humph sound. “Consider it a thank you, then.” He’s already in the kitchen. Seriously? He’s opening every single drawer looking for a fucking pan.  
  
“Hey, hey, come on, back up.” Stiles has to physically push him away from the cupboards. “I’ll let you cook for me, I guess, but I won’t be happy about it. And I won’t let you go rummaging through my kitchen putting shit in all the wrong places. Tell me what you’re looking for.”  
  
“Pushy,” Derek huffs, almost a laugh. “What ingredients do you have?”  
  
“Well maybe if you tried opening the fridge,” Stiles starts, walking over and doing exactly that. He makes a big gesture with one hand towards the inside, shooting a stale expression right at Derek. “Go wild, my friend.”  
  
“Oh, one minute you’re kicking me out of your kitchen and now I’m your friend? And you call me a jerk.” He gets abnormally close to Stiles as he speaks, who is still holding the fridge door open. Stiles absolutely does _not_ feel his heart turning violently inside his ribcage. “Don’t mind if I do.”  
  
Alright, so maybe Stiles clutches at his chest a little before sitting on the counter to watch Mr. Gorgeous make him dinner. Is this real, seriously? It can’t be. There’s a literal model in his house, kind of hitting on him and joking with him and also cooking for him. It must be a dream.  
  
The music is still playing as Derek moves his way around the kitchen, occasionally stopping to ask Stiles where he can find spices or something. Honestly, Stiles still can’t figure out what in God’s name Mr. Gorgeous is making for him. It could be pizza or fucking spaghetti and he would have no idea. So he sits back and lets himself watch.  
  
Derek is beautiful even as he cooks. He’s wearing another shirt that compliments the muscles in his back (not to also mention his shoulders and his arms), but that isn’t all. He’s amazing in the way he moves. The kitchen seems to be a home for Derek, regardless of the fact that he’s never cooked in Stiles’ apartment before. The model of a man practically _floats_ from pan to cutting board, and it’s like an art in itself. Stiles might be a little entranced.  
  
Derek coughs lightly, and maybe they’ve been staring at each other for a while from across the room. “Stiles?”  
  
“Sorry, yeah?”  
  
“I asked you if you’re okay with green peppers.”  
  
“Oh. Uhh.. Yeah, I’m good. I mean, I own them, right?”  
  
“Oh, right.” Is Derek blushing? His ears are a little red, but Stiles isn’t able to get a clear enough look before he’s turning around again.  
  
Maybe he should change the subject. “Do you have a guess yet?”  
  
“What do you mean?” Mr. Gorgeous doesn’t even turn around from the pan.  
  
“Alt-J. Which song is about gang rape?”  
  
“Oh,” Derek says, finally turning around. He leaves the pan sizzling, and leans on the counter beside the stove. “Is it this one?”  
  
The song playing is Interlude 2, so the answer is no, but Stiles wants to play with him a little. “What makes you think it’s this one?”  
  
“I have no idea. I’m taking a shot in the dark.”  
  
“Well, you suck.”  
  
“Thanks. I’m so glad I decided to make food for you.”  
  
“Come on, dude. You’re really gonna try to use sarcasm against me?”  
  
“It’s worked so far. I’m going to spit in this.”  
  
“Listen, douchebag, you have to eat that too.”  
  
Derek winks, says, “I’ll figure something out,” and then turns back to the stove. What does that even mean?  
  
“You’re an ass,” is all Stiles can shoot back, hopping off the counter to go look at his sketch again.   
  
“Is that anyway to treat the person who agreed to let you draw them? Who came to your apartment even though you could have been a skilled murderer?”  
  
“Okay, dude,” Stiles says, turning around to pin Derek with a stare. “There are so many problems with that argument. Like, first of all, who would murder someone with a face like yours? And, even if I were going to kill you, why would art be my excuse? I find that quite offensive, you know. Also, you’re the one who decided to come for the second night in a row, man, I’m not sure it’s my fault you chose to endure this.”  
  
“You think too much.”  
  
Stiles humphs. “Whatever, jerk.” He wanders back over to the kitchen, mostly because looking at his own work is weird and it smells great near the stove.  
  
Even better -- Stiles figures out -- near Derek, who smells gorgeous.   
  
_Anyway_ , Fitzpleasure is playing, and Derek turns around about thirty seconds in. “It’s this one, isn’t it?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“The song. It’s this one.”  
  
Stiles might sputter a little bit. “Uhh, yeah. How did you know that?”  
  
Derek just shrugs. “Lucky guess.”  
  
“I hate you.” Stiles definitely does not hate him. Or maybe he does. Hating Derek would be so easy. Hating him for his looks, his muscles, the laugh that makes Stiles want to die… But no. He’s kidding, unfortunately. “Did you look it up? You totally did, Derek, you’re the worst, I’ve decided.”  
  
Mr. Gorgeous turns his head so Stiles can see him raise a single perfect eyebrow. “The worst because I made a good guess and you’re bitter about it?”   
  
“Shut up.” They’ve both got laughter in their voices, though, and neither of them are able to hide that they’re smiling.   
  
Which is, of course, another shot to the chest plate for Stiles, because Mr. Gorgeous stops being an appropriate nickname when Derek smiles. It’s not worthy. Where’s the word for So Good Looking They Must Be A God Sent From The Heavens Above? Heavenly doesn’t seem to cut it. Time for a subject change, though, before Stiles spits out something dangerous like “marry me.”   
  
He hops up onto the counter beside Derek, leaning back so he can look at Mr. Gorgeous’ gorgeous face while he cooks. “Soooooo,” he drags, glancing down at the pan. Which, now that he looks at it, is actually probably a wok. “What are we having?”  
  
“Stir fry. Can’t you smell it?”  
  
“That’s very presumptuous of you, dude. What if I had some kind of condition where I couldn’t smell things? That would make you a total asshole.”  
  
Derek just rolls his eyes. “Here,” he says, lifting a spoon out of the pan and moving it slowly towards Stiles’ mouth.   
  
He might throw up.  
  
“Taste it, tell me if you like it.” Stiles can definitely tell Derek’s speaking, but he can’t really pay attention to what he’s saying over the sound of _his heartbeat drumming in his ears_. Derek’s hand is moving towards his mouth, and he definitely has no intention of giving Stiles the spoon.  
  
Honestly, Stiles doesn’t even consciously remember opening his mouth. Maybe his mouth was already hanging open as he was staring at Derek. Either way, there’s a delicious taste on his tongue and Derek is already throwing the spoon in the sink and turning back to the pan.  
  
He might be making some weird noises, actually, because Derek whips around to stare at him again, ears red. “Sorry,” Stiles says, even though he doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, exactly. “This is really good. I have almost nothing here, how did you do that?”  
  
“Practice, I guess.” Derek’s definitely blushing this time, and it’s absolutely adorable.  
  
They eat around the counter, because it’s essentially all Stiles has. The food is incredible, and it’s not Stiles’ fault if he moans a little as he’s eating. All he has to do is pretend Derek’s eyes aren’t on him as he does.  
  
“I guess I’ve never really thanked you,” Stiles says into his food. “I was kind of screwed.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
Stiles huffs. He supposes he’ll have to tell Derek at some point, so why not now? He can stop his terrible and impossible crush in its very tracks. “I’m still in college. It was an assignment and all of my friends said no.”  
  
“Seriously?” Derek says, and Stiles prepares for the worst. “Your friends said no? What kind of friends are those?”  
  
A huge sigh falls out of Stiles’ mouth. “Uh? Terrible ones, obviously,” he says, admittedly with a chuckle. “Nah, they were just busy. Not everyone has time to sit still for four hours, you know.”  
  
“By my watch, we’re rolling up on eight between two days.”  
  
“Oops,” Stiles says, with a smirk. “You’ve caught me, this has been my plan all along! And I would have gotten away with it if it weren’t for you meddling kids!”  
  
Derek’s laughing, and Stiles is melting. Whatever.  
  
He gets in another hour of work before Derek starts talking about leaving. He apologizes, glancing at his phone often.  
  
“Don’t worry about it. I’m pretty much done, anyway.” Stiles walks Mr. Gorgeous to the door, where his coat is.   
  
“Tell me,” Derek says, throwing it on, “You’ll send me a picture of it before you hand it in.”  
  
Stiles hums, pretending to hesitate. “I’ll think about it.”  
  
“You’re an ass.”  
  
“Thanks for everything, Derek.”  
  
Derek shifts a little, his hands moving upward and his mouth dropping open, and for a moment Stiles thinks maybe he’s going to kiss him.  
  
But nothing happens, and Derek closes his mouth, drops his hands. Stiles can feel his blood slow from racing speeds to middle-aged mom speedwalking, and a weight drops in his stomach. “Bye, Stiles.” Derek says, not even bothering with the stupid little three-fingered wave.  
  
Stiles is absolutely not upset about it.  
  
Stiles absolutely does not think about how he’s probably never going to see Derek again, and he is absolutely not upset about that, either.  
  
Stiles absolutely does not care about seeing Mr. Gorgeous Asshole ever again. It was a one time thing, right? A super quick friendship. A momentary acquaintanceship.   
  
*  
  
He does take a picture of the sketch before he hands it in, and he does send it to Derek.  
  
Stiles is actually incredibly proud of it. It looks like Mr. Gorgeous himself, and he got the lighting right and everything. He also went incredibly into detail, if he does say so himself. He sketched a line for every single individual eyebrow hair, and actually did some super tiny pores, as well.   
  
It might hurt a little to look at.  
  
And he does get increasingly upset about never seeing Derek again.   
  
So of course, the next week, when Stiles’ professor tells them they have a new month-long human portrait project, he might get a little excited. They have to hand in something each week, of the same person, with increasingly unrealistic colour palettes.   
  
Just to be loyal, Stiles calls Lydia first. She’s predictably busy, and Stiles pretends he’s sad about it. He honestly does not even bother calling Scott or anyone else.  
  
 _funny story: i need another art-centred favour if you’re available and also don’t hate me or think my apartment is weird_  
  
Stiles is fidgety for the next two hours while he waits for a reply. A reply that comes while he’s, once again, cooking himself gross dinner.  
  
 **You’re** **insane**.  
  
 _hey, listen, asshole. are you in or not? seriously, i’ll let you cook again_  
  
 **Your kitchen is pretty great.**  
  
 _damn right_  
  
 **Are you sure you aren’t just craving my cooking? Admit it, Stiles.**  
  
 _where the hell are you? i feel like calling you would be ten times easier._  
  
 **I’m busy. Are you free tomorrow at three?**  
  
 _yes????_  
  
 **I’ll be there.**  
  
 _you’re still an asshole_  
  
 **Right back at you. Bye, Stiles.**  
  
Well, at least he gets to see Derek tomorrow, even if the guy is a huge jerk. But he’s a gloriously attractive jerk, and a jerk that Stiles actively wants to make out with.  
  
 _Anyway._  
  
The next day, Mr. Gorgeous knocks on his door, 3pm on the dot. The guy’s got impressive precision and time-management skills, Stiles will give him that.  
  
“Come in, my muse.”  
  
Derek smirks as he walks through the door, already taking off his jacket. “You’re very moody. One minute I’m an asshole, the next I’m your friend, and the one after I’m your muse.”  
  
“So _anyway_ , here’s the deal: I have to paint you, in the exact same position, four times, with increasingly unrealistic colour palettes. Does that make sense?”  
  
He nods, folding his arms. Kill Stiles now, please, quickly and mercifully, before this man does it with sheer looks alone. “Just tell me what you want me to do.”  
  
Stiles immediately blushes. And not because the last sentence could be twisted into a very sexual manner with just a few word swaps. It’s because he wants to do a full-body portrait this time. “Do you mind if I um-- I’m gonna paint all of you, this time, I think.”  
  
“Sure.”  
  
“That’s cool? You’re not freaked out or worried or weirded-slash-creeped out by me?”  
  
Derek just laughs a little. “I wasn’t until you said that.” He must get a look of Stiles’ face, because he goes serious again. “It’s fine, Stiles. Where do you want me?”  
  
Stiles hadn’t thought of that (or how sexual that one sounds). And now that he does, he realizes the best places are near the windows, so he can use a full range of colours. That means Derek either has to sit on the floor beside the kitchen, or on Stiles’ bed.  
  
Of course, because Stiles absolutely hates himself, he has already committed to the bed idea. “Uhh…”  
  
“Just say it, Stiles. It’s fine.”  
  
“On my bed? I don’t mean to be suggestive or anything, dude, I swear, I just need the wide range of like, colour possibilities and shit? I’m so sorry--”  
  
Derek’s already walking over to his bed when Stiles looks up. “How do you want me to sit?”  
  
“Uhh--” Stiles says, once more, like the eloquent boy he is, while waiting for his brain to catch up. “Can you just scoot up -- yeah, toward the pillows, near the window -- now to your right, just a little -- and lean against the slanted window frame?”  
  
The picture is looking more and more perfect each time Derek moves flawlessly with Stiles’ orders, and he even bends his leg to rest his arm on his knee, and looks thoughtfully out the window. The pose is amazing, especially because Stiles never could have explained it.  
  
Not to mention, now that he gets to paint the bed and the window as well, it’ll probably end up looking much less dumb.  
  
Stiles puts a playlist on shuffle this time, instead of just an artist, and every so often Derek asks who it is. In fact, Stiles starts writing him a list on a sheet of paper beside the stool he’s on.   
  
Putting a brush to paper this time -- instead of a pencil -- to paint Derek’s face is absolutely amazing. It feels different than anything he’s painted before. He takes his time, careful strokes to outline his body and the bed. It’s feels right. Like Derek was made to be painted.  
  
But maybe Stiles is just crazy.  
  
It’s six-thirty when they have to stop, mostly because the sun has gone too far down for Stiles to see properly, and using artificial light would ruin the atmosphere Stiles had already started painting. He is using sunset colours for his first one, and painting Mr. Gorgeous’ face in the perfect gold has been both mesmerizing and emotionally stressful.  
  
“I can’t do it anymore, dude, it’s not going to work. I’m having enough trouble painting your face as it is, I don’t need light to stop being a thing.”  
  
Derek laughs quietly, gracefully moving from his position on the bed to move into the kitchen. “I’ll make something easy tonight, then.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t really think before words are falling out of his mouth. “Not trying to impress me anymore?”  
  
The man across the room from him just scoffs. “I can still impress you with grilled cheese.”  
  
“I highly doubt that,” Stiles is saying, but he can’t fully remember deciding to say it. He can tell he’s got a smirk on his face, and _oh God he’s successfully flirting with Mr. Gorgeous._   
  
“That sounds like a challenge,” Derek shoots back, already looking for a pan. He’s actually in the right spot this time, though.  
  
Playing along seems like a good idea, for some reason. “Maybe it is.”  
  
“It’s on.”  
  
Stiles loses, without any doubt, when he starts moaning again as he’s taking a bite out of literally the best grilled cheese he’s ever tasted in his life. He pulls the sandwich away from his face and the cheese just stretches, melting in his mouth and creating a kind of heaven he’s never even dreamed of.  
  
He might be crushing on this grilled cheese instead of Mr. Gorgeous.  
  
“You need to stop doing that,” Derek says, calmly eating his sandwich like a madman. What kind of dude is not affected by the glory that is this perfect grilled cheese sandwich?  
  
“Doing what?” Maybe a little bit falls out of his mouth, but Stiles can’t help it. There’s no way he’s pausing long enough to have a polite conversation with the man across the counter from him. There are four different types of expensive cheeses Derek came prepared with melting in his mouth right now.  
  
If Derek’s ears are red, Stiles pretends not to notice. “Making those noises.”  
  
“I’m sorry Derek, am I bothering you?” Stiles replies, totally sarcastic. He drops it after a second though, because has to defend himself. “I can’t help it, man, okay? I’m sorry, but this is heaven between two pieces of bread and I refuse to enjoy it silently.”  
  
“You’re killing me,” Derek sends back, and Stiles is considerate enough to swallow before sticking his tongue out at the dick in front of him.

And he definitely could have thought of a better way to phrase that in his head. Oh well.  
  
After they eat, Derek states that he has to go, but doesn’t elaborate, and Stiles doesn’t push it. The painting isn’t exactly finished, though, so Derek offers to come by two days later, and Stiles can’t help but wonder what he’s going to do with the day in between.  
  
Probably jerk off, honestly, to the thought of Derek on his bed, and also how his arms looked in that shirt and the inch of skin above the belt that Stiles was blessed with when Derek yawned.   
  
And maybe go to class. If he remembers.  
  
*  
  
He does go to class. He’s got an English Literature lecture at three the next day, and he manages to call Lydia as he’s leaving.   
  
“Stiles, Jesus Christ, I swore you were dead,” is what she picks up with, because why not, apparently.  
  
“What does that mean?”  
  
“It means you haven’t contacted me in _ages_ , Stilinski, except to ask if you can put my face on paper. What is going on? Where are our gossip-filled coffee dates and regular debates?” She’s definitely at least vaguely pissed.  
  
“How can we have coffee dates if you’re too busy to let me draw you?”  
  
“Coffee dates are an hour, Stiles, not _four_. C’mon, spill. Where have you been?”  
  
Stiles winces in advance, because what he’s about to say might not go over well. “I met a guy. Last week--”  
  
“What?”   
  
“--I was at Starbucks and--”  
  
“No, no, Stilinski,” She barks into the receiver. “Don’t say another word. I’m on my way, and you’re going to tell me every. Single. Detail. Do you hear me?”  
  
He manages to get out, “Copy,” before she hangs up on him.  
  
Ten minutes later, she’s there at his door, with a grocery bag in her hand. “You’re going to start talking while I cook for you.”  
  
“Nice to see you too, Lydia.”  
  
“If you need help,” She says, fiercely unpacking the food from the bag (if that’s something you can do fiercely), “You can start with his name, or how you met, or why in the everloving hell you decided to wait so long to tell me.” She flashes him a truly terrifying smile. It’s still gorgeous. “Actually, no, I want to know that last. Who knows, maybe it’s something good. I still have an inch of faith in you.”  
  
“Why are you so mean to me?”  
  
“I’m sorry, I love you. I am just _severely_ deprived of information that does not involve excruciating amounts of time spent staring at a chalkboard. I’m wilting, Stiles, hurry.”  
  
He can only roll his eyes. “His name is Derek. I met him at Starbucks after literally every one of you fake friends bailed on me--”  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
“Remember that time I needed someone to sketch and you were all conveniently busy? That time, literally a week ago?”  
  
“Oh,” she says, face melting just a little as she looks up from chopping mushrooms. “Sorry. Go on.”  
  
“Thank you. Anyway, I sat in the back because usually no one is over there, but he was. So on a whim I decided to ask him, and by some miracle sent straight from the glowing attic, he said yes.”  
  
“You mean to tell me,” she says, not even bothering to look up, “that you picked up a guy from the back of a coffee shop with a terrible line like, ‘Can I draw you?’”  
  
Stiles sputters a little, because that’s not what happened at all. He’s tempted to hop off the counter he’s sitting on to set her straight, but he’ll probably just get in her way and that may end in death, so he thinks better of it. “Not really, no? I mean, that’s essentially what I said, but--”  
  
“Stiles, that’s definitely how you pick someone up.”  
  
“Okay, sure, but I wasn’t _trying_ to.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter. It’s still a line. It just happened to be truthful on your part.”  
  
Stiles has to cough again. “Are you saying that Derek thinks I was hitting on him? I have to stop you there, dude, he’s so far out of my league that is not even a possibility. Let alone that he would say yes.”  
  
She hums. “I guess I’ll have to figure that out for myself.”  
  
“What does that even _mean_?”  
  
“It means,” she says, starting to chop onions. Oh no. “That you’re going to let me go through your texts, and I’m going to decide what the situation is. You need to get laid like, yesterday, Stilinski, I’m tired of seeing you moping in our Latin class.”  
  
Stiles would sigh, mostly because she’s right, but he’s kind of busy trying not to scream. Lydia is furiously chopping the onions, ignoring tricks like putting a spoon in your mouth in favour of just going for it, and she doesn’t so much as blink. Meanwhile, Stiles is practically sobbing. “Lyds, my eyes are bleeding, I swear to God this is how I die, I’m going to bleed out through my eyeballs, I think they’re on fire, fucking hell.”  
  
Lydia does sigh, again not looking up from what she’s doing. “You’re fine, Stiles. Go to the bathroom and calm yourself down.”  
  
When he comes back, she’s done with the onions and is frying them in a pan. He still has no idea what she’s making. “I still don’t understand why you even decided to take Latin, Lyds. The class bores the hell out of you because you already know it all.”  
  
“But it boosts my mark,” she says. “And they wouldn’t let me take Quantum Physics until next year, so I needed an elective.”  
  
“Well that’s stupid.” The pan sizzles and Lydia doesn’t even flinch. “Can’t you write an entrance test or something?”  
  
She just sighs again. Stiles has legitimately never met anyone else who was upset about not being able to take Quantum Physics in their first year of university. Lydia is her own form of art. “Stiles, I fleshed out all the principals of QP to them in person. They said the best they can do is let me in next semester.”  
  
“Okay, so you’ll be there soon.”  
  
“But first I have to sit through Latin.”  
  
“But first you have to sit through Latin, with me, yes.”  
  
Eventually they move outside to Stiles’ balcony on the right, and he’s still amazed his apartment is so great and so cheap. To be fair, it was kind of disgusting when he moved in, but it’s still a nice place, especially after everyone helped him clean up the spiderwebs and ignore the peeling walls. Plus, the balcony really only has enough room for a barbeque, so it’s not that luxurious.  
  
Honestly, the barbeque is only there for when his friends come over, as they often do. He’d probably kill himself trying to use it. Not to mention that it came with the place.  
  
“Listen, Stiles, I care about you. When’s the last time you had a healthy relationship?” This time she’s actually looking up from what she’s grilling.  
  
It takes Stiles a while. Maybe it’s a bad thing that it’s hard for him to remember. “Arguably never?”  
  
“Do you want one?”  
  
He has to think about it again. “I mean, yeah, sure. Maybe I need to get my mind off this gorgeous guy who’s coming back to my apartment tomorrow so I can finish painting him.”  
  
“Oh no, honey,” Lydia says, turning back to the meat on the grill. “We’re going to do the opposite.”  
  
“Oh, Lydia, come on--”  
  
“Nope. You’re already in deeper than you expected, Stilinski. Go in and check on the onions and mushrooms, will you? I have to plan.”  
  
It’s easier to just do what Lydia says, so back into the apartment Stiles goes. The onions and mushrooms are fine, just for the record.  
  
After they’ve eaten (some steak admittedly a few mouth-gasm levels below what Derek cooks), and Stiles has managed to tell Lydia the short story of the Adventures of Stiles and Mr. Gorgeous, she demands his phone.  
  
“What are you gonna do?”  
  
“Look through all your nudes,” She retorts with abundant sarcasm. “No, Stilinski, I’m looking through your texts with Derek, like I said I would. Where is he?”  
  
“He’s under Mr. Gorgeous.”  
  
She rolls her eyes. “That’s honestly the best you could come up with? Seriously? I had faith in you.”  
  
“Shut up. It’s accurate.”  
  
Lydia only hums again. “I’ll be the judge of that.”  
  
“You have to stop saying things like that, Lyds. I’m capable of making those kinds of claims.”  
  
That actually gets her to laugh, and she moves to get off the stool. And, because she’s the greatest, she starts washing their dishes. “I will admit, you do have a pretty good track record.”  
  
“You’re damn right. Actually I still have the first sketch I did of him on my phone, and I think I’m getting the real thing back later this week. Do you want to see it?”  
  
She nods furiously, and Stiles reaches for his phone back, but apparently she’s already found it. “Is it the only sketch on here recently, or have you done another?”  
  
“It should be the only one. I don’t usually take pictures of my leisurely ones, you know that.”  
  
She turns her head to the side, squinting at the picture. “First of all, Stiles, this is amazing. Really well done.”  
  
“It looks less dumb in person, I think.”  
  
She shoots him a look, eyes peeking over the top of the phone, and then she returns to examining it. “Is this actually what he looks like?”  
  
“I mean,” Stiles starts, scratching the back of his head, “Hopefully? That was kind of the assignment, so. Yeah, I sure hope that looks like him.”  
  
“I’m impressed.”  
  
He doesn’t cough, he totally doesn’t.  
  
Okay, maybe he does a little. It’s just surprising, alright? “Why?”  
  
“He’s a model, Stiles, I mean, look at him. He has to be.” She brings her face away from the phone a little to look at it. “I need to see him in person.”  
  
“Oh no.”  
  
“Oh _yes_. Not tomorrow, that’s too abrupt. But I’m assuming, based on what you told me about this month’s art project, you’re going to be painting him again next week. So I will conveniently show up, assess the situation, and then you can have time to yourselves again.” She starts packing up to go, grabbing her knitted infinity scarf and her jacket. “Don’t worry, Stiles. It’ll be fine. Wink at him at least once for me, okay?”  
  
“Goodbye, Lydia.”  
  
“See ya, nerd.”  
  
This is probably not going to end well.  
  
*  
  
The next day, Derek does indeed show up. Everything goes as per usual, Mr. Gorgeous cooks for them, Stiles can legitimately feel a food-induced orgasm unfold in his mouth, and he does actually finish his painting. He’ll probably add some new strokes to it once Derek is gone, just to fix it up, but that’s something he’d end up doing no matter what.  
  
They’re just sitting at the table, finishing dinner, when Stiles realized Derek usually would have been gone by now. “Haven’t you got some convenient reason that you have to go home now, or what?”  
  
Derek just laughs a little, maybe slightly embarrassed. “No, nothing’s going on tonight. I can go, though, if you want your apartment back.”  
  
“No, no, I’m not kicking you out. I would gladly just sit here and bask in the fact that you’re even here in the first place, so.”  
  
Mr. Gorgeous might be blushing again, and Stiles might throw up. He has no idea why those words fell out of his mouth. “I don’t know what you mean,” Derek says, and Stiles legitimately has no idea whether he’s joking or not.  
  
“Uhh…. Never mind. What do you want to do, like, here?”  
  
“I don’t know.” Helpful as ever. Thanks so much, Derek.  
  
“Well we could at least move off these terrible stools, I guess.” Stiles does just that, leading the way down like, three stairs into where his only couch is. Sometimes he regrets the fact that there are no walls in this place. “Okay, so. Get-to-know-you time.” Derek just raises an eyebrow, a silent question. “What’s your favourite colour.”  
  
Derek breaks for about two seconds before responding. “Blue. You?”  
  
“Red. Your turn.”  
  
Music plays as Derek thinks of a question. “Hmm. What’s your favourite season?”  
  
“Fall,” Stiles says, without hesitation. Derek wordlessly asks him to expand, lifting his eyebrows with a nod. “You know, the colours, the smells, pumpkin pie -- I’m a sucker for it all.”  
  
“Even the gloomy days?”  
  
“Dude, gloomy days are the best, you don’t understand. It’s like, you get the colours on the trees _plus_ the colour of the sky? So great man, it’s my favourite. Everything about the season is amazing, okay, don’t judge.” That sounds dumb, time to pretend he didn’t say it. “Anyway, what’s yours?”  
  
“Spring.”  
  
“Spring? _Seriously_? You’re gonna criticize me for liking Fall when your favourite season is _Spring_? Okay, dude, okay, whatever.”  
  
“What’s wrong with Spring?”  
  
“It’s just like -- you know, it’s gross slush melting on the sidewalks and shit. It’s bare trees reminding you that it’s too cold to be Summer yet. It’s boring. Why do you like it?  
  
Derek chuckles a little, rolling his eyes. “I like it because it’s the start of something new.”  
  
It takes Stiles a while to remember that they’re sitting on the floor, because he’s been a little distracted by Derek. He hasn’t been focusing on how uncomfortable his ass has been because he’s leaning up against the foot of his couch, within three feet of the most gorgeous man he’s ever spoken to. Occasionally a douchebag, but so attractive and funny and clever. “Well, that’s dumb. Trees don’t even start budding until it’s almost Summer anyway.”  
  
“First of all,” Derek says, kicking Stiles’ foot with his own (Stiles will pretend it doesn’t work him up), “You’re dumb. And second, it’s not just the visual part I like. I know you’re an artist, so it’s probably a lot of what you look for, but it’s more the idea that I love.”  
  
“You’re weird.”  
  
“Shut up,” is all Derek bites back with. “It’s your turn.”  
  
Stiles hums a little, before deciding to honor the way they met. “Coffee order.”  
  
“Dark roast, black.”  
  
It’s such a typical boring answer, Stiles can’t help but sigh and roll his eyes. “And when you’re feeling adventurous?”  
  
“Two sugars?”  
  
“Oh my god.”  
  
“What?” Derek asks, legitimately confused. “I like coffee as it is: coffee. I don’t want to drink pumpkin pie and ice cream when what I’m looking for is coffee.”  
  
“You’re the worst kind of pretentious,” Stiles shoots back, “And I’m going to show you the ways of delicious coffee-related treats one day, I swear. The trick is, you have to think treat and not coffee.”  
  
Derek shoots him a look. “What’s your order?”  
  
“Depends on the day,” Stiles starts, because there are a few variables. “If I’m looking for plain coffee, it’s usually two cream, three sugar. If I’m at Starbucks, I like to stick with my usual caramel macchiato, unless the pumpkin spice latte is in season.”  
  
“That sounds like diabetes in a cup.”  
  
“It’s not that bad, Derek, don’t be an ass.”  
  
Derek must have picked up the habit of sticking his tongue out.   
  
By the time Derek finally leaves, it’s 11pm and Stiles knows Derek’s favourite restaurant (some high class piece of shit in the fancy part of downtown), his favourite combination of ice cream (mint chip and death by chocolate), at least one of his nervous habits (chewing on the inside of his cheek, though Stiles didn’t ask that, he just figured it out), and his favourite genre of books (history/fiction), among other things. Stiles almost does a very good job at pretending he hasn’t memorized every answer, that knowing more about Derek doesn’t make him smile like an idiot.  
  
When they say goodbye at the door, Derek stutters again, and Stiles stutters with him. They have another three weeks of this, at least, because as far as Stiles knows Derek plans on sticking around for all four parts of the project. But still, Stiles wants more. He wants everything.  
  
After Derek has finally left his apartment, Stiles calls Lydia. “You can come next week, if you want, but that’s it. And he’s mine, okay?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there. Thanks Stiles!” She giggles, kind of adorably and kind of like a maniac, before she hangs up on him without so much as a goodbye.  
  
*  
  
A week later, Lydia shows up at his house again. They literally just watched movies together with the rest of the gang on the weekend, but no. Lydia, like always, refuses to take no for an answer. She’s incredibly determined to get a look at Derek in person, and to “assess their relationship,” whatever that means.  
  
So they talk a bit, until finally it’s 4:30 and Derek arrives. Stiles absolutely does _not_ jump up and sprint to the door excitedly, okay, shut up, Lydia.  
  
“Hey, Derek,” Stiles says, opening the door and definitely not looking Derek up and down. Nope, his eyes definitely didn’t stop to look at Derek’s chest. Not at all.   
  
Okay, maybe a little.  
  
He’s dressed nicer than usual, though, when he shows up. Typically he’s got a long sleeve shirt, usually a pretty mild colour, and some jeans. But right now, Derek’s in a nice dark red button up and black pants. Maybe still jeans? Stiles honestly can’t tell.  
  
He’d love to get close enough to figure it out, though.  
  
Stiles stumbles a bit after realizing he’s kept Derek outside the door, quite silent for some time now. “What’s the occasion?” He blurts out, because why not ask? With a blabbermouth like Stiles’, what has he honestly got to lose?   
  
“Oh,” Derek says, and maybe he’s blushing again. Will Stiles ever be sure when Derek’s blushing? Probably not. He looks down at himself, wipes his pants a little. “I was just at my niece's recital. I figured I’d just come right over, but I brought clothes to change if you--”  
  
Maybe Stiles shouts the word, “No,” okay, maybe he doesn’t. That’s no one’s business except his own. “No, it’s um -- it’s okay. Don’t worry about it, you -- that -- you look good.” Oh God, he’s going to throw up everywhere.  
  
“Are you sure? I can change.”  
  
“It’s fine, Derek, seriously.” And then, because he can’t help himself, Stiles whispers under his breath, “I’ll try to keep my pants on.”  
  
Stiles honestly can’t tell if Derek is the one who makes the noise behind him. Maybe it’s a laugh, maybe it’s him choking, maybe it’s the sound of Stiles’ dignity being shattered between the door and its frame.  
  
Lydia clears her throat -- quite loudly -- from the couch.

  
“Oh, yeah. Derek, this is Lydia.”   
  
Derek nods, walking over to the couch beside Stiles, and Lydia nods in return. “Hello, Derek. It’s nice to finally meet you! Stiles has said a lot.”  
  
She deserves the pointed look Stiles sends her way, but Derek only replies, “Nothing too bad, I hope?”  
  
“Oh, all good things, no need to worry about that--”  
  
“I told her you stink,” Stiles cuts in, as fast as he can, because Lydia can and will embarrass him more if she thinks it’ll give her a better read on the situation.   
  
He just laughs. “I’ll remember to shower before coming here next time.” Unbelievable. “Speaking of which, I’m assuming you have a bathroom I could use?”  
  
“Nah,” Stiles retorts, without missing a beat. “You can pee off the balcony.” It’s not until Derek’s moving toward the door that Stiles has to throw his arms about and get him to stop. “Oh my God, Derek, I was kidding, seriously. It’s right through the beads over there, go ahead.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes and exits the room.  
  
As soon as he’s out of sight, of course, Lydia is mouthing whispers at him so furiously and so quickly that he can’t pick up a word she’s mimed in his general direction. He finally convinces her to repeat herself, though.   
  
She also seems set on having half-assed conversation in between whispers, which seems effortless for her, but is actually incredibly difficult focus-demanding for Stiles, who does not have the brain of a complete genius.  
  
“ _He’s even more gorgeous than I thought._ Stiles, do you want tea?”  
  
“Yeah, sure, I guess. _I_ _know_.”   
  
Lydia raises her eyebrows aggressively at him, if that’s possible. “ _You need to hop on that soon, seriously._ ”  
  
“ _I’m working on it_ ,” Stiles whisper-shouts back, probably a little too loud. “ _I don’t know if he thinks I’m attractive or if he even likes dudes! Maybe you’ve distracted him and he’s into you now!”_  
  
“ _Stiles!_ ” She hisses, “ _I don’t need your self-depreciation today. He’s totally into you. Do something about it!”_  
  
He shushes her aggressively before Derek can return, because he does, swiftly. Stiles honestly wonders if maybe Derek had heard the whole thing and was just politely waiting for them to be done. Maybe he’ll never know.  
  
“Hey, Derek. Do you want tea?” Stiles gestures to Lydia, across the apartment and in the kitchen, about to boil water.   
  
“Uh, no, I’m okay thanks.”  
  
“Suit yourself!” Lydia calls from the kitchen. She puts the kettle on before hopping up on the counter.  
  
Derek wanders over, slowly, to sit on the couch behind Stiles, who tries desperately not to give in to leaning on the guy’s knees. It only works for so long, but then again, Derek doesn’t seem to mind anyway.  
  
Lydia subtly demands their attention again when she calls, “Soooooo,” from her perch in the kitchen. “Derek, what are your fervid passions?”  
  
Stiles instinctively rolls his eyes, but Derek doesn’t even blink. “Art, history, reading, family. If you want a basic answer.”  
  
“No, no, that’s exactly what I was looking for.” She hums, kicking her legs against the cupboards. “I heard you were here for Stiles to draw you. Is that all?”  
  
“Yes.” Derek says, and there’s the slightest hint of a question in his voice.  
  
Lydia only hums again. “You’re not going to hurt him or anything?”  
  
“No.” There’s no question in that one.  
  
Stiles has to break in, though, because he’s never sure what lines Lydia is willing to cross. “Okay, _anyway_ , moving onto topics that _won’t_ make me or my guests uncomfortable; I think that kettle is boiling.”  
  
“No it’s not,” Lydia sing-songs, and Stiles is going to smash his head against something until he can pretend he doesn’t hear Derek holding in a chuckle behind him.  
  
“Yes,” He insists, “I think it is.”  
  
“Okay Stilinski, whatever you say.” She hops down to pour tea, and doesn’t bother even directing her head to her shoulder when she speaks back at them. “I’ve got my travel mug here, Stiles, I think I’m just gonna pour the tea in here and go. I don’t want to interrupt, and besides. I’ve got to finish that equation, win awards, you know how it is.”  
  
“Oh of course,” Stiles jokes with her, because after all, he’s still really, really glad they’re friends. He also follows her to the door, not expecting Derek to come with him. He does though. “Thanks for hanging out with me today.”  
  
“No problem. Derek,” Lydia says, with a smirk and a hand extended, “Nice to meet you.”  
  
“You too,” He replies, shaking it without hesitation.   
  
“I have a feeling I’ll see more of you,” She says, finally, winking before shouting, “Bye!” as she retreats down the hall.  
  
“I’m so sorry about that, seriously,” Stiles says to Derek before the door is even closed.  
  
Derek only shrugs. “It wasn’t that bad. I can’t even be offended that she thinks I’d hurt you.”  
  
“What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“That she doesn’t know me, and it’s fair for her to assume I’ve got bad intentions, I don’t know.”  
  
Stiles laughs, already walking over to get his art stuff. “Whatever, let’s just get started, okay? My tea is gonna be too steeped already.”  
  
Derek assumes his position on the bed, rolling up the sleeves of his gorgeous button-up. Honestly, arms like his should be illegal. And a button-up, seriously? Those are bad enough even without the sleeves rolled up. But no, Derek is intent on slaughtering Stiles. Of course he is. They decide on subtle changes between this portrait and the last; different shirt and small position adjustments for Derek, new rustles in the comforter, different items on the bedside table, the like.  
  
He decides on a lighter palette this time, like sun shining on snow outside. There’s a lot of cream and grey and canvas left unpainted, and thus, Stiles gets very frustrated, very early. It’s 5:50 when he throws the brush down and his hands in the air.   
  
“That’s it, I’ve hit a wall. It’s time for mouth-gasm, please, Derek, I beg of you.”  
  
Derek lets out a light chuckle as he slides off Stiles’ bed, heading to the bag he brought by the front door. His ears are red again.  
  
Stiles would wait and be polite if he could, but honestly, he can’t. “What’s on the menu?” He does his best not to circle around Derek and get in his way, but he’s not sure how great of a job he does at that.  
  
“I was thinking hamburgers tonight? I kind of just assumed you had a grill, sorry.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, yeah, it’s just out on the balcony. It’s kind of tight out there, but I’ll keep you company anyway.”  
  
Eventually Derek finishes cooking, and then Stiles finishes painting, and then Derek has to go home again. But he promises to be by again a week later for the next installment in the Mr. Gorgeous Series, and that’s good enough for Stiles.   
  
*  
  
The next week when Derek shows up at his apartment, Stiles tries very hard not to sputter. The man at his door is absolutely drenched from the storm outside, rain sliding down his chiseled cheekbones and shirt clinging to his chest. It is an absolutely delicious sight to see, perhaps giving his food a run for its money.  
  
“Uh, hi,” is all Stiles can seem to get out, brilliantly, arm still holding the door open and blocking Derek from getting in.   
  
He just raises his eyebrows.  
  
“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” Stiles says, stepping out of the way and letting Derek through. “I’d offer you a towel, but man, the view is too good.”  
  
Derek rolls his eyes light-heartedly, trying not to chuckle. “I brought stuff for soup,” He says, holding up a bag that he managed to keep somewhat dry. “Can I put some of it in the fridge?”  
  
“No, of course not, how dare you,” Stiles shoots back, as Derek is opening the door. “What kind of soup?”  
  
“It’s a surprise.”  
  
“C’mon, jerk, you can’t do that. What if I’m allergic to mushrooms or something? Do you want me to die?”  
  
“There aren’t any mushrooms in it.”  
  
“That’s not what I meant!”  
  
For once in their routine, they decide to cook first and paint after, if only because Derek needs time to dry before crawling all over Stiles’ sheets. Stiles reluctantly offers Derek one of his shirts, just because sitting in a wet one while they eat must be uncomfortable, but Derek refuses anyway. Instead, he throws off his wet shirt and puts it in the sink, leaving his chest bare and still a little damp. Who knows why. Maybe just to make Stiles uncomfortable in his jeans.  
  
The rain outside hits Stiles’ window lightly, a perfect background soundtrack to a lazy and cozy late autumn day. The soup is a flawless match for the weather, and they sit on the carpet to eat instead of the stools at the counter, if only so they can drape a blanket over their legs and lean against the couch.  
  
“Derek, I want to die in this soup.”  
  
He chuckles, and Stiles can feel it vibrate through his arm. “That would be quite messy.”  
  
“I don’t care,” Stiles says, another spoonful already in his mouth and maybe drooling out of his mouth? Just a little? “This is so good. This is the only way I want to die, dude, seriously.”  
  
“Are you almost finished already? What did you do, drink it?”  
  
“Well, no, I mean.. maybe some of it? It was so good, I’m not even sorry.”   
  
They sit there for a while after, not in silence but not in particularly important conversation either, before Stiles suggests they finally get to painting. It’s not long before Stiles is remembering that this is the third portion of his assignment. The second last time he has an excuse to see Derek, and he feels his stomach drop.  
  
Derek assumes the position anyway though, throwing his wet shirt back on. “I thought maybe you’d want the look,” he says, but he doesn’t wait for an answer before he climbs carefully onto Stiles’ bed. He somehow doesn’t touch the wet shirt to the sheets once.  
  
“Uh, yeah, it -- you -- it looks good. Just, um. We’re probably not going to get much painting in before it’s too dark to see, so --”  
  
“I’ll just come in the same shirt tomorrow. The forecast says more rain, I think. Don’t worry, Stiles, just paint.”  
  
“Okay,” he agrees, and he does. He paints slowly, taking his time even more than he has before. Every stroke is a new layer to the canvas, and he starts to see the entire picture long before he’s even done Derek’s face.  
  
He uses a dark palette this time, dark sea greens and night-rain blues. He adds in the occasional glint of gold for the street lights, and it illuminates Derek’s face perfectly. It feels almost like Derek wasn’t made to be painted.  
  
Stiles was made to paint him.  
  
It sounds just as dumb as the first time, but Stiles can’t help thinking it. He can’t stop looking at Derek’s face and wanting to cup it with his hands. He can’t stop thinking about Derek’s stubble against his skin, or his hands against Stiles’ body, or even just the image of them holding hands. He wants it all, and he only has one more week to try and get it.  
  
At the same time, though, he doesn’t want Derek to think it’s a last resort. He doesn’t want him to think that he’s only asking Derek out because he’s desperate, or because he wants someone to paint, or because it’s the last week and he feels like he has to.  
  
Which means he has to do something about it today or tomorrow.  
  
Stiles decides to push it out of his mind as he paints, thinking only of the strokes, the final picture, the lighting, the colours.   
  
He’s half done when 8:30 rolls around and even the streetlights outside and the lamp inside aren’t enough for Stiles to see what he’s doing anymore. They have to call it quits.   
  
“Alright, dude, I think that’s all I can get in for today. We’ve already gone way later than usual.” Derek moves to get off the bed, but Stiles stops him. “Wait, wait -- I’m gonna put this stuff away just -- hold on.”   
  
He leans the canvas, still drying, up against his kitchen island like usual, and folds up the easel as well. Then, finally, he crawls on to the bed beside Derek, grabbing the remote from the bedside table as he goes.  
  
“Do you have to go?”  
  
Derek’s reply is quiet. “I can stay.”  
  
“How long?”  
  
“Whenever.”  
  
“Okay,” Stiles whispers back, before even noticing that they had been whispering. “Wanna watch a movie?”  
  
Derek nods.  
  
They’re shoulder-to-shoulder again, and eventually they get under the covers. They also decide on watching the movie quietly, if only because they’re both sleepy. Mad Max: Fury Road plays with the volume on low, while Stiles tries to ignore the fact that Derek is letting him lean on his shoulder.  
  
About halfway through, Stiles gets up to pee, and Derek instinctively pauses the movie. By the time he comes back, Derek is nearly asleep.  
  
“Derek?” His eyes fly open, probably because he didn’t mean to fall asleep. “Do you want coffee or something? I’m going to make tea, but you didn’t want any of that last time, so…”  
  
Derek hums for a second, thinking. “What kind of tea is it?”  
  
Stiles will never admit that he was excited about that answer. “I’ve got a bunch, I’ll read them off to you. Don’t move!” and then he’s running to the kitchen and throwing open his tea cupboard. “I’ve got fruity teas, black teas, two green teas and one white.”  
  
“What are the black teas?”  
  
“English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Chai, Pumpkin Chai -- which is delicious, by the way -- Gingerbread, a Kenyan and a Nepal. The Nepal kind of tastes just a little like lemon, and the Kenyan is basically English Breakfast except creamier. It’s so good.”  
  
He hears Derek laugh from the other room. “Did you make any of those up?”  
  
“Depends,” Stiles calls back, “Did you just purposely make a Scott Pilgrim reference?”  
  
“Yes,” Derek says, as Stiles waltzes back into the room to stare him down.   
  
“I lied, it didn’t actually depend on anything. I didn’t make any up, but I am really glad you made that reference.” He taps the wall. “So? Decisions?”  
  
“What are you having?”  
  
Stiles hums this time, because he hadn’t decided yet. “Probably just English Breakfast. I’d do the Pumpkin Chai, just for you, but I’m not feeling it tonight.”  
  
“Then just make a pot, I guess.”  
  
“Cool.”  
  
Stiles ends up just calling around the apartment again to ask Derek what he wants in his tea when it’s done, and then finally he’s crawling back into bed, two mugs in hand.  
  
It might just be him, but he thinks maybe they’re sitting closer than they used to be.  
  
Maybe this is as good a time as he’s going to get.  
  
They sit in comfortable silence for a bit, sipping at their tea, and every so often Derek catches Stiles staring at him. Stiles turns his head away and pretends not to blush.  
  
And then, because Stiles’ life absolutely hates him, they both start speaking at the same time. Stiles finally works up enough courage to say, “Hey, um--” at the same time that Derek says Stiles’ name.  
  
“You go,” Stiles says, but Derek shakes his head. “I’m definitely not going first,” Stiles insists, and Derek just sighs.  
  
“I want to-- would you-- do you want to go get coffee? Sometime?” Derek finally manages to say, ears red. Stiles is _sure_ this is him blushing. “Or tea, or dinner, or a movie or whatever you want. I just… want to keep seeing you.”  
  
He can’t help it, okay? It probably seems awful to Derek, but Stiles has to let out a sigh of relief, maybe laugh off the tension in his shoulders a bit. The dude beside him just looks as taken aback as Stiles has ever seen him.   
  
“No!” Stiles shouts, as soon as he realizes what it probably looks like. “I mean, yes! But that’s not what I meant! I didn’t mean to laugh at you, oh my God, I just laughed in your face, Jesus Christ, I’m an asshole, but no! I meant yes! Like, yes, I want to go out with you, and yes, I want to keep seeing you, and yes, yes, yes. Oh Lord just kill me now, I’ve already embarrassed myself enough.” Stiles’ face is in his hands when he finally gets himself to shut up, and he keeps it there until he can hear -- and feel -- Derek chuckling beside him.  
  
“Stiles, come on,” He says, softly, yet still through a bit of laughter. “It’s fine.” He places a hand on Stiles’ leg, and he just has to peek out of his hands.  
  
“I’m sorry, yeah,” Stiles finally says, chuckling nervously. “Yeah, I wanna get coffee or tea or dinner or a movie or anything with you.”  
  
They’re staring at each other a little, and Derek’s getting closer when he says, “It’s a date.”  
  
Stiles manages to say, “I guess it is,” before a pair of lips meet his own. Derek brings up a hand to cup Stiles’ jaw, but they’re sitting beside each other, so the angle is a little awkward. Neither of them care enough to break away.  
  


The kiss is soft, chaste, kind of quick. Just a small brush of lips before they lean their heads together.  
  
Stiles kind of has to huff a laugh. “I still don’t even know what you do for a living.”  
  
“I’m an artist.” Derek says quietly, and Stiles laughs softly in return.   
  
“Okay, seriously. What do you do?”  
  
“I wasn’t kidding.”  
  
“What, seriously?” Stiles might be gaping a little when he jerks away. “You didn’t tell me? All this time I had been painting you and talking to you as if you didn’t know anything and you-- _what_?”  
  
Derek blushes beside him, and turns to look at his hands. “Sorry for not telling you, it just didn’t really cross my mind. And when it did, I figured it would just be weird to tell you. There was no way to bring it up.”  
  
Honestly, Stiles has to take a couple seconds to process the information. Eventually he accepts it, though, and settles on curiosity. “Well now you are definitely morally required to let me see your stuff. As an apology.”  
  
Derek chuckles nervously beside him, and Stiles can’t help but find it absolutely adorable. “I, uh--”  
  
“C’mon Derek, it doesn’t have to be today, I just want the promise of something at some point.”  
  
Nerves and chuckles continue to vibrate through the bed from Derek, until finally, voice quiet, he says, “You’ve already seen them.”  
  
Which, of course, causes Stiles to sputter a little and try not to drop his jaw on the floor. “What does that even _mean_ , Derek, you can’t just say that! How have I seen them before? Why didn’t you tell me? Why do you enjoy my pain?”  
  
“They’re--” Derek pauses to clear his throat, looking completely guilty. Stiles mentally prepares himself, because he has a feeling he might start yelling into the abyss soon. “They’re uh, on your walls.” Stiles is going to spit. Everywhere. “There’s one um, here,” Derek continues, totally ignoring the fact that Stiles is definitely going to vomit, and points at the wall beside the bed to Stiles’ favourite painting. Ever. “There’s also one in the kitchen--”  
  
“And the wall beside the door, right? _Right_? You’re _H_. Oh my God, Derek, seriously, I hate you so much. How could you not tell me? Your paintings have always been my favourites, and I’ve been sitting here doing shitty paintings of you for _weeks_. You’re awful. Absolutely awful, don’t talk to me.”  
  
“It was weird, it’s not my fault!”  
  
“You know what else is weird? Finding out your art subject, crush, and favourite local painter are all the _same person_. Who has been in your house at least six times by this point, and didn’t tell you until you _kissed_ _him_. That’s weird.” He crosses his arms. “I’m bitter.”  
  
Derek chuckles again, less nervous and now rolling his eyes at Stiles. “It’s not that big a deal. Besides, you must have come to one of my art shows to buy those, you should have known it was me.”  
  
“No, no, no, no, nooooooo, okay, that’s not true. I wandered around that art showing for like, twenty minutes at least just asking for you. I wanted to shake your hand, find out if what you looked like, see whether you were a dude or not. But _no,_ you were busy. I was there for two hours and you were nowhere to be found. Don’t you dare push this on me.”  
  
“I had things to do!” Derek cries in his own defense.  
  
Stiles can only exclaim, “Like what?!”  
  
Derek doesn’t reply. He looks guilty and he’s trying not to smile.   
  
“You wanted to escape your own show, didn’t you?”  
  
“Maybe?”  
  
“I feel that so hard, dude, seriously. I don’t blame you. I only ever had a mock one with my friends but it was still weird as hell.”  
  
Derek joins in as Stiles laughs. “I kind of regret it now, though.”  
  
“Really?” Stiles says, confused. “Why?”  
  
“I would have met you sooner.”  
  
Literally just punch Stiles in the face. Shove a hand into his chest and pull out his heart. He can’t hold back a smile, his heart speeding up once again. “You’re ridiculous,” is all he manages to say before he’s got a hand balled in Derek’s shirt and he’s leaning in to kiss him again.  
  
This one lasts a little longer, lips meeting less carefully. Stiles feels the stubble from Derek’s chin every so often, and it shouldn’t make him so excited but it does. He wants to feel it all the time. He wants to know intimately the way Derek pulls away a little, pauses, give Stiles one last kiss before pulling away completely. Stiles wants to feel at home in the hands he runs through Derek’s hair.  
  
When did he get in so deep?  
  
“Your face is ridiculous,” Derek finally says, snarking back a little out of breath.  
  
“Jerk.”  
  
Derek laughs, then pauses a little. Stiles does not focus on the flexing of his biceps as he scratches the back of his head. “Actually, I’m kind of serious,”  
  
“What do you mean?” Seriously, is that an insult?   
  
“Your face is _obscene_ , Stiles.” He’s serious. He’s not joking. “Your mouth kills me.” That’s an actual thing Derek just said to him.  
  
“Oh my god, you’re not kidding.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“Stop speaking, I need to be making out with you. Right now.”  
  
And they do. They make out, occasionally pulling away to laugh, or gripe at each other, or talk about Mad Max, which they do eventually end up finishing. At some point.  
  
Eventually it’s almost midnight and Derek leaves, and Stiles kisses him at the door to say goodbye, and then immediately dances around his room like a child who got the first thing they asked for for Christmas. Maybe it’s pathetic for a grown man to be so giddy, but Stiles can’t find it in him to care.  
  
*  
  
“Stilinski? Is that you?”  
  
“Hey, Lydia. Nice to speak to you too.”  
  
Stiles can feel the anger radiating from the other end of the line. It’s terrifying. “It’s been a _week and a half,_ Stilinski. What gives?”  
  
“Conversation is a two-way street, this is your fault too.”  
  
“Stiles!”  
  
“Fine!” Stiles says, quite loudly, and the people on the street around him give him a look. “I’m kind of dating Derek now?” He turns his head to look at the man beside him, fingers entwined at their sides.  
  
Derek only smiles back at him, and he can probably hear Lydia yell from the phone as Stiles holds it away from his ear (he doesn’t particularly want to go deaf today).  
  
“First of all, congratulations on growing a pair. Second of all, when did this happen, Stilinski? Why did you wait this long to tell me? What’s _wrong with you?_ ”  
  
He can’t even force himself to be offended. He can only laugh calmly, and reply with “You know, I’ve been busy.”  
  
“That sentence is so suggestive I almost forgive you.”  
  
Stiles laughs again, before passing the phone to Derek. “Here, why don’t you talk to him.”  
  
“Hello, Lydia.”  
  
Her voice is immediately rid of all venom. “Nice to talk to you again, Derek. How are you?”  
  
He can only chuckle, looking aside back at Stiles. “You know, I’m good.” He smiles even wider, and Stiles feels Derek squeeze his hand. “Really good, actually.”  
  
“I can already tell that is completely disgusting.”  
  
Neither of them can keep in their chuckles that time. “I can hand you back if you want--”  
  
“No, no, I like you better. Tell me, Derek, how awful is Stiles in bed?” Derek only laughs nervously, turning to Stiles again as he slaps his forehead and maybe yells “Uggggghh,” so loud that he gets another dirty look. Good thing they’re almost at Stiles’ apartment.  
  
“I’m not sure you want to hear me talk about that.”  
  
She scoffs. “You two definitely haven’t boned yet, I get it.”  
  
Stiles makes grabby-hands at the phone, immediately slamming it to his ear. “Hey! First of all, you can’t assume what we have and haven’t done, you totally aren’t that good and we both know it. Second of all, maybe we have and Derek is just very politely uncomfortable with the thought of informing you on how absolutely spectacular I am at sex. So fuck you, dude.”  
  
She just laughs a little. “I missed you.”  
  
“I missed you too. We’ll hang out on the weekend, ‘kay? The squad can come and stuff and we’ll watch a movie.”  
  
“Derek too?”  
  
“Yes, Derek too. I’ve gotta introduce him to the rest of the gang.”  
  
“Good. I like him more than you.”  
  
“Very funny, asshole.”  
  
They talk to Lydia until they’re inside Stiles’ apartment, and she listens patiently while Stiles yells about how nervous he is. Then he describes his new work to her on speaker, and they continue to talk about plans and double-dates and the like. Eventually they hang up, explaining that Derek’s family is going to be there soon. She sing-songs a lovely “Ta-ta, boys!” and hangs up, probably to go make out with Parrish or something equally gross and stupid.  
  
He thinks, right before thinking about how much he wants to make out with Derek. Yikes.  
  
“Derek,” Stiles asks, soon after Lydia has hung up. “I know this is a terrifying thing to ask right before your parents show up and I’m incredibly sorry about that, but I’m stressing out about it and I need to know. We’ve only been together like, three weeks or something, right? Isn’t that a little too soon to meet your parents?”  
  
Derek just chuckles a little, getting up to go change. Somehow it’s still as intoxicating as when Stiles met him. “Yeah, I guess so,” Derek yells from Stiles’ room, not helping at all. There’s a bit of a pause as he walks out of the room with a new shirt on. “But I’ve been talking about you for months, and my family won’t stop yelling at me about meeting you, so. I think we’re good. I still can’t believe you wanted to host.”  
  
Stiles can only shrug. “I think it’s probably better to do it here. You said yours was unavailable, so, I mean, this is the reasonable option, right? This way I can comfortably clean up my own vomit after everyone leaves.”  
  
“It’s going to be fine, Stiles.”  
  
Stiles doesn’t say anything, so Derek speaks again. “If you’re uncomfortable, we can do it later. It’s no big deal.”  
  
“Nah, I’m kind of super excited to meet them.” That brightens Derek’s face up. “You said you have two…. sisters? Right? I know Cora already, and the older one is Laura, right? And she’s married… to--” His voice trails off.  
  
“Josh. I’m impressed.”  
  
“Don’t be, I had a head start. Oh, and plus a billion cousins that live with you.”  
  
Derek chuckles lightly. “Yeah, and Laura’s daughter Emily, but they aren’t coming tonight. They’re out to dinner for Maddy’s birthday, actually.”  
  
And then there’s a knock at the door, and Stiles feels nervous again. It shows in the tapping of his feet, his hands constantly running through his hair. Before Derek even twitches to get up and open the door for his family, he places a hand on Stiles’ leg and looks him in the eye when he says, “You’ll be great, Stiles. They already love you. You don’t have to worry. We’re doing this together.” And then Derek kisses him lightly on the lips, and then again on the forehead, and Stiles thinks his heart might just beat its way up his throat and out his mouth.  
  
He can’t help but feel more relaxed. Derek’s right, they’re in it together. Stiles already feels like it’s going to go well, but even if it didn’t, it would be a battle they fought side-by-side.  
  
By the time they’re at the door, Stiles is barely nervous anymore. When Derek opens the door, it’s definitely excitement he’s feeling more than anything.  
  
“Helloooooo, Derek,” A tall brunette sing-songs, walking through the door first and immediately throwing her arms around him. Stiles has a strong guess that it’s Laura.  
  
“Nice to see you, too, Laura.” Ten points.   
  
She pulls away from him, hands on his shoulders, before seeming to remember the casual presence of Stiles _right_ _beside_ _him_. Her eyebrows shoot up, eyes going wide and giant smile on her face. “Are you Stiles? You must be Stiles! It’s so good to meet you!”  
  
He, of course, assumes she’s going to shake his hand -- nope. She pulls him into one hug, then pulls back and goes in again for a second.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just-- I’m so glad to meet you! You know, poor Derek, it’s just been so long--”  
  
She’s interrupted by Derek’s hand, slapping her arm. “Hey.”  
  
“I’m just kidding, Der.” Laura turns back to look at Stiles once more, hand lightly patting his shoulder. “I should move down the line, let the others in.” She slides off to the side, looking around the apartment to assess, or something.  
  
Next down the line, after greeting Derek, is a tall man that Stiles assumes to be Josh. “It’s nice to meet you, Stiles.” Josh is much more civil and predictable, holding out a hand and laughing softly as Laura makes comments in the background. “I’m sorry for her.”  
  
“Oh, don’t worry about it, honestly,” Stiles says, shaking Josh’s hand. “There’s nothing she can say about my apartment that has not already been said by my friends. They’re very creative.”  
  
Josh laughs, once again moving down the line.  
  
“I’m Mark, Derek’s father. It’s nice to finally meet you.” The man in front of him holds out a firm hand, soft smile on his face. He’s very soft spoken, gentle but confident in his movements.  
  
The younger sister is next, immediately punching him lightly in the arm once she’s in front of him. “Hey, Stilinski. How’s that English Lit homework going?”  
  
“Don’t even talk to me about it, Cora, now is definitely not the time. You see this?” He asks, pointing to his face, “this is a smile. This means I’m happy, which subsequently means I’d rather not dwell on the impending doom that is the mountain of homework waiting for me on my desk.”  
  
She just laughs at him, giving him a wink and a soft, “Good luck, dude,” as she also moves to the side.  
  
Derek’s mom, Talia, is last. She settles in front of him, eyes calmly searching his eyes before she says anything. “Hello, Stiles.”  
  


“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hale--”  
  
“Oh, Talia, please. It’s lovely to meet you, too.” She puts her hands on his shoulders for a second before gently offering a hug, which Stiles gladly accepts. “We’re all very happy to be here, Stiles, thank you for hosting,” she says when she pulls away, throwing pointed stares at the two daughters in the room.  
  
“Thank you, Stiles, the place is lovely,” Laura says, and Cora chimes in with, “Yeah, thanks, dude.”  
  
Dinner goes well, with lots of laughing and poking fun at Derek’s childhood, but not his cooking. The entire scene kind of just sets Stiles on fire, thinking about how domestic it is and how normal it could be for them. Every time he lingers on the thought of him and Derek having a future together, he can’t help the feeling of butterflies in his stomach, the adrenalin pumping through his hands, his intense desire to kiss Derek over and over.  
  
Eventually, the Hale family leaves, and on the way out, all of them hug both Stiles and their son. Stiles can only smile to himself when he thinks about how well the night went. They’re going to be really good together.  
  
“Sooooo,” Stiles starts, dragging Derek toward where their easels are leaned up against the wall. They set them up together, dueling paintings right beside each other. “Do you wanna work on these paintings and then make out, or the other way around?”  
  
Somehow, they manage to multitask. **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!!! please please please gimme comments and criticism im so narcissistic i need validation
> 
> AND if you want to contact me you can follow me on  
> tumblr: grimegarage


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